Inside Prince Armand’s office, three men sat in tense conversation. Smoke hung in the room, its scent competing with that of fresh flowers and old leather. Often rooms take their mood from the men who occupies them. This one held power, quietly, unarguably. Decisions made here were rarely made in haste and never made with emotion. Decisions made here could not be regretted after the heat of anger or the twists of grief had passed.

Prince Armand sat behind his desk and listened to his son-in-law. Reeve MacGee was a man he respected and trusted. He was friend, he was family, and more. Reeve’s background in law enforcement and special services made him invaluable as an adviser. Though he had refused any offer of title or position of state, Reeve had agreed to work, quietly, in the capacity of security adviser for the royal family.

“There’s little more you can do to improve the security here at the palace without making a public statement.”

“I have no desire to make a public statement.” Armand passed a smooth white rock from hand to hand as he spoke. “The embassy?”

“The security’s been upgraded there, of course. But it’s my feeling that unless you’re in Paris, there’ll be no trouble there.”

Armand accepted this with a slight inclination of his head. He knew he had been the target in Paris, and was still living, always would, with the knowledge that another man had died in his place. “And?”

Reeve needed nothing else to know the prince spoke of Deboque. “The security at the prison is excellent. However, no amount of security can prevent Deboque from issuing orders. His mail can be censored, naturally, but he’s much too sharp to put anything incriminating in writing. He has a right to visitors.”

“Then we agree that the Paris incident and the smaller, less tragic incidents of the past few years are Deboque’s doing.”

“He planted the bomb, just as he orchestrated the theft of the Lorimar diamonds from the museum two years ago. He’s still running drugs while he sits in his cell. In three years, two if he manages parole, he’ll be back on the streets.”

Such was justice. Such was the law. “Unless we prove that through his orders, Seward was killed.”

“That’s right. And proof won’t come easily.”

“We sit here and talk about increased security. Defensive measures only.” Alexander crushed his cigarette into a mass of paper and tobacco, but his voice was calm. “Where is our offense?”

Armand held the white rock a moment longer, then set it on the desk. He understood Alexander better than anyone, the tightly controlled fury, the constantly blocked emotions. A father can feel regret even as he feels pride. “You have a suggestion?”